


Can'tcha Come to Understand?

by reserve



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Anal Fisting, Body Image, Canon Disabled Character, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Tiny toppy steve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-02
Updated: 2014-08-02
Packaged: 2018-02-11 12:16:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2067864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reserve/pseuds/reserve
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky needs Steve, needs him so bad. Steve's never quite sure he's enough.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Can'tcha Come to Understand?

**Author's Note:**

> This is pure, unrepentant, self-indulgent porn because I am a bad person. One thousand hugs and kisses to [andwhatyousaid](http://archiveofourown.org/users/andwhatyousaid), who wrote me the best beta note ever, and another one thousand to the divine [robokittens](http://archiveofourown.org/users/robokittens), who was willing to leave Westeros at times to read this for me.

"C'mon Steve, do it for me. You know you wanna," is what Bucky always says. 

 _It_ is all sorts of things. It's ride on the Cyclone, even though Steve'll get sick. It’s one more watery ale at McSorley's when Steve's eyesight is already swimming. It’s perfectly cooked scrambled eggs which he's particularly adept at making, even after a night at McSorley's.

If Bucky's desperation gets the better of him then the plea becomes, "C'mon Steve, good buddy, do it for me. Do it for your old pal, Bucky. You _gotta_ help me." And if it's not Steve's help Bucky needs, then it's Steve's time. And more often than not what Bucky really needs is Steve's hands because Bucky can't darn a pair of socks for the life of him, and he hates to iron something fierce, and Steve is not his mother, but sometimes— _lord save him_ —he sure feels that way. 

Worst of all, though, is when Bucky amps up the charm, and Steve becomes "Stevie baby," and "your old pal Bucky," becomes "your old pal Bucky who loves you." What follows is a thousand variations of "C'mon baby, where's the harm?" and "What's wrong with a little fun between two good friends like us—an' we're the best of friends, ain't we?" And the last straw: "I need you so bad, Stevie."

Now _that's_ when Steve knows he's in for _it_. Knows that Bucky is going to sidle up to him on the couch or at the table and goad him until he gives in and gives it up.  

Wasn't always so. 

Once upon a time they stopped at the water's edge of affection. Slaps on the back, the occasional heartfelt bear hug when they got through something tough, arms slung over each other's shoulders after a night out—all the very soul of youthful camaraderie. But even then, Steve could've sworn that Bucky was asking him for more. Didn't so much as say it, but there was always something there behind his teasing eyes and his big laugh. Hell, Steve used to think he was losing his mind, lying awake at night in his closet of a bedroom, getting over this ailment or that, and cataloging every single look Bucky had tossed his way that week. 

He damn near made himself sick over Bucky, and on top of his regular string of illnesses that was too much to bear. For Bucky too, who would catch Steve turning red, his breath coming fast, and assume the worst when all Steve could think about was the sinful way Bucky's undershirt had ridden up as he stripped off his school uniform. Or the way Bucky's tie slipped through his fingers as he unknotted it. All these little things left Steve in a near fit, which apparently bore a passing resemblance to scarlet fever or some such, because seeing Steve get that way always sent Bucky careening to his side, far too close and so concerned.

They spent a long time like that: Bucky pushing Steve over the edge without knowing it, and Steve pushing Bucky to worry ceaselessly about his health since he could never seem to breathe right in Bucky's company, at least not after they turned 13 or so. 

Got to be so bad that one day during a particularly persistent spell of whooping cough Bucky had just leaned over and kissed him. Kissed him right on the mouth in Steve's childhood bedroom where Bucky had taken up residence in the rocking chair that Steve's ma, and her's before her, had rocked babes to sleep in. 

Steve had sputtered incoherently and another round of coughing had ensued, but at the very least that whole can of worms was opened up and dumped right out on the table. Later Bucky said he'd done it because he was genuinely convinced Steve might die and didn't want to see him off to heaven without so much as a kiss. Steve had laughed, maybe a little too carelessly for Bucky’s liking, and told him that after that there was _no way_ he was planning to die, especially if there was even a little bit more where that kiss had come from.

 They'd worked it out from there, furtively, with words and mouths, hands, and some other parts too. 

After that, Steve managed to become much more serene, but he knows he still drives Bucky crazy. Especially when Bucky’s got nothing to do, and the only thing he seems to be capable of doing is wheedling Steve like it's his goddamn job. Can’t occupy himself to save his life, and that’s what having a boatload of siblings will get you. Makes Steve almost proud, though, that Buck’s willing to work so hard to get him going. He could give in easy, but where’s the fun in that? He likes the way Bucky watches him, intent and flushed and half-annoyed, as he scribbles away with his eyebrows drawn tightly together, and his tongue tucked between his teeth in concentration. 

On a day like today, when it’s sweltering, and he’s trying to concentrate, Steve can tell Bucky’s bored out of his mind; he's really just waiting for him to start in, and his toes curl up thinking about how days like today usually end. First, though, Bucky will pace. Then he’ll sigh, loudly and with gusto. Then he’ll take his shirt off, ball it up, and throw it at Steve’s head. Steve will play his part; duck and scowl, and pretend like everything's dandy, like Bucky may as well be a ghost. 

Then Bucky will pull out the only other chair at their no-good cast-off table and he’ll flip it around so he can rest his head longsufferingly on his hands across the chairback. He’ll sit there, legs spread around the seat, grumbling and pushing his damp hair off his face again and again, and he’ll be a complete and total nuisance until Steve pays attention to him. 

Let it never be said that Bucky Barnes isn’t a persistent sonovabitch, Steve thinks fondly. He can’t help himself; he loves him. 

“Steve,” Bucky stage-whispers, leaning close.

“Hmmm?” 

“Stevie, ain't you hot?”

“It’s hot out.”  

“Don'tcha wanna go see if there’s a hydrant open somewhere?” 

“Nope.” 

"Don'tcha wanna go over to the shop and see if Rosalyn's got any new comics?"

"Uh-uh."

"How's about a walk then? See what the boys are up to?"

"Maybe later."

Bucky makes a rough frustrated sound and Steve has to duck his head to hide his smirk. 

“You’re no fun, Rogers, yanno that?” He leans back and away, hands on the sides of the chair, lifting up the front legs. 

“Then quit tryna talk to me,” Steve says. 

"C'mon, it's not like that bowl of fruit is gonna walk away." 

“Well ain’t gonna draw itself either.” Steve turns a full-on grin toward Bucky. 

Bucky comes back towards him, his expression softened, and the chair thumps down. He reaches out to ruffle Steve’s hair, and Steve leans into it. He’ll never be immune to the full force of Bucky’s attention. He’s a sure thing; as sure as a midwinter bout of pneumonia. 

“Stevie,” Bucky says, drawing out the ees. He catches his lower lip between his teeth and slips his hand from innocuous crown of Steve’s head to the nape of his neck, big palm curving around the muscles and sinew there. He squeezes, and his fingers circle gently on Steve’s damp skin. Bucky’s eyes darken in the dim light. 

“C’mere,” he croons. “Gimme a little something? Just a little?”

Steve sighs.

"I need you, Stevie, you don't know how bad."

He drops his pencil and lets Bucky pull him close. Their lips meet and Bucky hums into the kiss, low and pleased. He’s won again; he always does. Steve lifts his hands to Bucky's face, and strokes one slightly stubbled cheek with his knuckles. He angles their heads and takes the kiss deeper. Bucky presses towards him with the chair between them, lifting up the back legs as he rocks forward. He makes a greedy, gratifying moan when Steve takes his lower lip between his teeth. 

When he can barely find his breath, Steve pulls away. Bucky's mouth is red and wet, plusher and more tempting than the cherries in his still life. A mouth like his is undeniable. 

"Go on, get up," Steve says, when he can. 

Bucky's tongue peeks out between his lips and he smiles. "Knew you liked me, Rogers." 

He stands and stretches, long, toned arms reaching up toward the dingy ceiling with its curling paint and water stains. His chest is broad and tan from hours in the summer sun. He's everything Steve isn't, and it fills Steve with envious lust. 

"I'll show you just how much in a minute," he says, aiming for bold and full of promise, while he waits to breathe easy again.

Bucky saunters into their bedroom, looking over his shoulder as he goes. “No take backs,” he says. 

“Don’t try me.” 

Steve follows him. Finds him. Pushes him down onto their makeshift queen mattress, their two twin beds-come-one from the moment they moved in together. 

Now, they _move_ together, slowly at first and then more urgently; Bucky's hips pressing insistently up against him. Steve is settled between his thighs and Bucky is eager and pliant for him, untucking his shirt with clever fingers and taking the buttons apart before he even notices. Bucky loops his arms around Steve's neck, draws Steve's face down to him, and mouths against the tender skin behind his ear. 

"S'nice, right? Better than drawing?" He nips Steve's earlobe and Steve feels his slow cat's grin when his hips twitch in response. 

 _Bucky_ , he wants to say, _Bucky_ , _it's nicer than anything._ _There is no nicer thing. My whole world could narrow to the pinpoint of this, to the places your skin touches mine. I could live only for these moments. I breathe solely for you._

He groans instead.

"Will you do me, Steve" Bucky murmurs, shorting his brain out further. "Would you?" He's rubbing Steve through his trousers, unzipping them both, and stroking their dicks together before Steve finds his tongue to say anything at all. "Please, Stevie?" Bucky plies. "Like it so much. Love it, love you..."

"Yes," Steve says to him, "yes, yes," before he can doubt himself and his body and his ability to do what Bucky asks. 

"I'll make it easy," Bucky offers, and squirms a little out from under him, strips off his pants and undershorts. He grabs their container of Vaseline and slicks Steve up. 

"Let me touch you," Steve says, when Bucky settles back beneath him and angles his thighs apart. 

Bucky shakes his head. "I don't need it. C'mon, Stevie. Just. Just do it, ok? Nice and easy for me." 

He says "for me," but Steve knows he means "for you." Bucky would gladly let Steve break him into the mattress if he could. Would let Steve plunder him fully if he were able. He can't do that, but he can to do what Bucky asks for now, at his own pace and not for as long as he might like, but he can do it. 

He takes his dick in hand and lines himself up with Bucky's body. Pushes inside, and pleasure shoots up his crooked spine. Bucky tips his head back with a keening sound, and Steve holds himself up on shaking arms and starts to thrust. Bucky's hips come up to meet him each time, his blue eyes flutter shut, and his strong, sure hands span Steve's hips, encouraging and steadying. 

When Steve comes, hips stuttering and breath fast, it's over far too soon. His dick pulses inside Bucky, and Bucky's thighs are sweat slicked around him. He grimaces through his release, throws his head back trying to get more air into his bargain-bin lungs. Below him, Bucky is tugging hard on his own dick in time with Steve's final thrusts. 

When his heart feels like it might give out and there are black spots behind his eyes, Steve collapses forward, panting like a locomotive, trembling inspite of himself. God, but he wonders why Bucky even lets him do this, why Bucky even bothers letting him claw his way to orgasm on top of him like this. He whimpers against Bucky's shoulder, arms limp at his sides and Bucky smoothes his hands down Steve's back, his own erection forgotten for a time. Steve slips free and his dick hangs limp and spent against Bucky's ass. 

"Shhhh," Bucky soothes, hands sliding over skin. "I got you. You're ok. You're so good, Stevie, so good to me."

Steve mouths blindly at Bucky's neck. Mumbles, "What about you, though? You ain't done yet."

"You can still take care of me, can'tcha? Catch your breath, go on, ‘m not going anywhere." Bucky’s tone is light, but Steve can hear the furrow in his brow, can sense the worried line of his mouth. He’s got a catalogue of Bucky’s facial expressions that stretches longer than Webster’s. Bucky kisses the top of his head and Steve pushes himself up on wobbly arms. 

“I’ve still got you covered,” Steve says, steadily as he can. “Sit up.” Bucky does, leaning against the wall. They haven’t got a headboard, probably for the best really. 

Bucky takes himself in hand and starts to stroke his flagging hard-on. Steve kisses him as soon as he can, deep and wet. He fists a hand in Bucky's floppy hair and tugs, feels him shiver in response. 

"Touch me, Stevie, will ya?" Bucky gasps when Steve tugs his hair again. "Please?"

Steve brings two fingers to his own mouth and sucks on them, leaving them spit-slicked.

Bucky watches him intently, his pupils blown out, his exhales uneven. 

"Jesus," he whispers, when Steve settles himself against Bucky’s side and trails wet fingers down his flank, past his own hand, and to the place behind his balls where he's already slicked with Steve's come. A gentle probe, and Bucky opens easily for him, his hole is lax and wet, and he feels hot around two of Steve's fingers. 

He twists his wrist—a squelching sound—and Bucky gives a little more with a whimper that makes Steve shiver.  He tilts his head up to capture Bucky's mouth. 

"This what you wanted?"

"God, yes," Bucky mumbles against his lips.

Steve grins. He twists his wrist again, and again, fingers spreading apart just a little, his knuckles pulling against slick, rosy flesh. He adds a third finger, and  Bucky clutches at him, grinds down onto his hand. Steve feels it all the way up his arm, like a lightening bolt of desperate need. 

"I'm not. I need." 

"Whaddya need, Buck?" 

"More."

"More?" Steve's eyebrow lifts as he sits upright, and shifts to better see his hand. "Do you—I mean, d'you want my little finger too?"

Bucky swallows, Steve can see his Adam's apple move, and he nods, eyes big. He's holding himself very still around Steve's fingers. A moment ago he was practically fucking himself on Steve's hand. Steve's little pinkie finger is crooked sort of painfully against his palm, he could probably add it to the mix real easily. 

"Could you?" Bucky practically whines. "Would you do that for me?" He pouts, those kiss-bitten lips pressing together.

Steve nods, lost in the depths of Bucky's pleading blue eyes. Of course, _of course_ he can. He can do anything so long as Bucky's the one doing the asking. Bucky'd do anything for him, just the same. 

"Ok, ok Buck," he says.

Steve scoops a little bit more Vaseline out of the glass jar on the bed and slicks his pinkie, then his palm and the back of his hand just in case, adds a little more to the taut, wet skin around his palm. Bucky watches with heavy-lidded eyes and a deep flush across his face. His legs are carelessly akimbo. Steve feels as undone as Bucky looks. 

"C'mon," he whispers, voice catching. "C'mon, Steve."

He pulls his hand away so that just his fingertips remain, and Bucky moans from deep inside his chest. Steve tucks his pinkie against his ring finger and moves his whole hand at once, rotating his wrist gently, his slender digits coming together in a neat triangle. He watches his hand work into Bucky's body to the crook of his thumb, all the way to his last row of knuckles. Bucky makes a wailing sound unlike anything he's heard before, high and wrecked, and bears down.

Steve's forehead wrinkles up and his hand stills. 

"Buck?"

"Don't stop," Bucky gasps. "Please, please, don't stop. It's good, Stevie. God, you feel so good."

There will never be another feeling like this, Steve registers hazily, his mouth slack with awe. There will never be anything like the delicate texture his fingers are flush against. There is nothing in this world like Bucky moaning encouragements at him as he shifts his whole hand over and back inside of him, as his thumb grazes against the sensitive spot behind Bucky's balls. If they do this again it won't be soon enough. This is a want he can satisfy, a need he can abate even after his limit is reached.

"Steve, hey—" Bucky tugs at his shoulder, and Steve adds slick to his thumb, plus more to his hand without having to be asked. Bucky sighs gratefully, and slips his hand up Steve's neck to cradle the back of his skull. 

Maybe, Steve thinks, as he tucks his thumb against his palm and works to breach Bucky's body with the breadth of his knuckles, maybe he'd have misgivings if his hands weren't as small as any girl's, but he was given hands to match his frame, fine and dexterous. Artist's hands. And maybe if Bucky weren't groaning, each sound longer and more guttural than the first, and maybe if he weren't frantically stroking his dick, Steve would be worried. But as his thumb catches, and then miraculously fits into Bucky's ass, his hand curling naturally into a fist, and Bucky cries out tenderly, clenching tight around his bony wrist, all Steve can think is how remarkable this is, how precious. He feels delicious satisfaction he hadn't known before. 

Bucky comes, and Steve feels the force of his orgasm rock through him, course through the whole of him. It feels shattering, overwhelming, and forces Steve's hand from his body with a violent spasm of hips. Steve surges forward and crushes his mouth to Bucky's, swallows the last of his moans down greedily, and licks into his mouth with a hunger that frightens him. His hand curls against his chest like a broken bird, and the smell of them, sweat and sex, fills the room, almost visible in the hazy half-light. 

"Fuck," Bucky sobs, his eyes damp. "Jesus, Stevie, that was...." He trails off and kisses Steve again. 

For the first time, the truth of them feels big and bright as day, emblazoned on his skin: Bucky needs him, needs him so bad. Steve can live with that. 

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me on [tumblr](http://reserve.tumblr.com) for less fisting and more crying.


End file.
